


let me have a dance with her

by JourEtNuit



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, atlas ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 03:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19821256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JourEtNuit/pseuds/JourEtNuit
Summary: They haven’t had much time to talk after getting to Atlas, though Yang wonders if they even need words at this point. They’ve both felt it, the shifting of their relationship, inevitable and immense like the shifting of continental plates. One minute they were still mending, dancing around each other, the tension palpable. The next, they’ve watched Adam fall to his death, blood staining his shirt, and Blake is crying on her knees, and Yang’s arms are around her, and everything’s changed.Or: It’s the worst party ever, but Yang and Blake still find each other.Written for Bumbleby Week - Day 1: Atlas Ball





	let me have a dance with her

Yang usually loves parties, but this has got to be the worst she’s ever been to.

Everything about it feels stifling - the crowd of people dressed in their fanciest clothes, the chatter of conversation, incessant and grating, the air, heavy with perfume and incense and candles and the sour smell of sweat underneath it all.

She’s standing near a glass door that leads out to the garden, eyes scanning the crowd. She has no trouble finding Ruby and Jaune hovering not too far from Ironwood, who’s busy talking with a group of high-ranking Atlas military personnel. It takes her a little more time, but eventually she spots the rest of her friends, all engaged in conversation with various guests.

(Weiss is talking to Winter, hands crossed in front of her, and if Yang didn’t know her as well as she does, she wouldn’t notice the way her knuckles have turned white, the fragile tautness of her back, like a bowstring ready to snap. Yang’s heart aches for her, but she doesn’t move. She knows Weiss can handle whatever this is, and she also knows Weiss will call for help if she needs it.)

She sighs and takes a sip of her drink - some sort of creamy cocktail she hates - while she looks around for potential targets. It’s their goal after all, the whole point of going to this stupid, terrible party in Atlas: gathering information, making people talk, looking for any trace of Salem’s influence, any indication of where the war will hit next.

Yang hasn’t done much of that, so far. People here are just so fucking delicate, so poised and polished - they make her feel inadequate, awkward, too big and too loud and _too much_ , a goliath in a dust shop. So she drinks, and flexes the fingers of her metal hand, and eyes the crowd, and reflects on the fact that this is the first party she’s ever hated so much.

She loves parties where people are _happy_ , that’s the thing. There’s a way to loose yourself in a party, with the music and the lights and alcohol and bodies pressed close together and the sound of laughter. Yang grew up in a quiet house, after Summer died. A loving house, certainly, built by her father who, despite losing so much, always found the strength to give his children a home. But a quiet house nonetheless, so filled with absence and ghosts that even the babbling of her little sister couldn’t drown out the grief.

So Yang is drawn to the noise and the fun and the fleeting joy of parties. And this one has none of it.

She tries to smile at an older woman wearing an extravagant hat with silver feathers - the woman ignores her pointedly. Yang rolls her eyes, takes another sip. On the right side of the room, Blake is standing beside a marble column, talking with a man sporting the most ridiculous mustache Yang’s ever seen. He’s a little taller than her, and leans his head down to say something close to her ear. Yang catches Blake’s eyes, and winks. Blake rolls her eyes, clearly bored out of her mind. Yang hides a snort of laughter in her cocktail. The man smiles, Blake smiles too, and says something that makes him laugh. She’s good at this, Yang thinks, with pride. The daughter of a diplomat, through and through. She will be a great leader, someday, when the war is over and they have a future to think of.

A future. Yang can’t imagine a future without Blake, and now there’s something tightening inside her stomach, something pressing, urgent. She wishes she could just grab Blake’s hand and leave, and talk about their future, maybe. They haven’t had much time to talk after getting to Atlas, though Yang wonders if they even need words at this point. They’ve both felt it, the shifting of their relationship, inevitable and immense like the shifting of continental plates. One minute they were still mending, dancing around each other, the tension palpable. The next, they’ve watched Adam fall to his death, blood staining his shirt, and Blake is crying on her knees, and Yang’s arms are around her, and everything’s changed.

Blake brings her cup to her lips. The crystal lamps hanging low make her look ethereal, almost, in her black and purple dress, like a character out of a fairy tale, an enchantress, a queen. She’s wearing a bow, and Yang wants nothing more than to tug it out and free her ears, thread her fingers in the silklike softness of Blake’s dark hair.

Someone bumps into her, shaking her out of her reverie. “Yang, we’re supposed to be _mingling_ ”, Nora whispers way too loud. Inexplicably, she’s managed to get ahold of a full platter of dainty little fishcakes. There’s a waiter looking baffled and kind of scared on the other side of the room - Yang has no idea what went down, but she winces in sympathy nonetheless. “Stop staring at Blake and go talk to people!”

She stuffs an entire cake in her mouth - Yang can’t help but be impressed - and winks. “Or, you know, go _talk to her_ , and ask her for a dance, lovergirl!”

Nora punches Yang’s shoulder, hard enough that if Yang were anyone else she’d be left with a bruise, and saunters over to where Ren is politely listening to a couple of old men wearing monocles and, absurdly, powdered wigs.

Yang turns her eyes back to Blake, but she’s disappeared in the ever-moving crowd. She sighs, takes one last look at her sad half-empty cup, and decides she’s had enough. She leaves the cup on a nearby table, and slips through the back door, into the garden.

Outside the air is cold and sharp, refreshingly clear. It smells crisp, of fresh snow and something minty. Yang takes a breath, feels her lungs ache a little, pleasantly so, and rolls her shoulders. She’s in a paved alleyway, surrounded by marble sculptures and trees covered in a thin layer of ice. The music still comes through the opened window, and without the rest of the party, Yang can finally appreciate the lilting melody. The band is playing a classical piece, an atlesian waltz, both beautiful and melancholic. She closes her eyes, savoring the moment.

A sudden noise makes her jolt. A little further up the alley, in the semi-darkness, there’s something…someone? Yang takes a step forward, muscles tensing instinctively. “Is someone there?”

She hears shuffling, light footsteps, and then she blinks, taken aback. It’s a group of children, hiding in the garden, hesitantly walking toward her. Five of them, all dressed in warm and practical clothes, though not fancy enough to look like they belong in the party. Two of them are Faunus, siblings probably, with nearly identical dog ears amid dark curls of hair. The oldest looking one, who must be around ten, maybe twelve, pushes the other kids behind him, protectively. He’s glaring at Yang with outright suspicion. Yang relaxes her whole body, drops her shoulders, opens her hands, makes herself look as harmless as possible.

“Hello,” she says, with a smile. “I’m Yang.”

“Hi!” a little girl replies, cheerfully, before the older boy shushes her. “You from the party?” he asks, still frowning.

Yang nods. “Wasn’t much fun, so I decided to come out here. Lucky I did, cause clearly I found the _real_ party!”

She winks at the kids, and they relax, all at once. She knows she’s won them over, so she crouches down to their level, and they come closer, curiously eyeing her metal arm, her wild hair, the shiny material of her ball dress. Yang pokes at the little girl, who giggles, delighted by the attention.

“What are you guys doing out here?” she asks. One little boy with dog ears and curly hair points at the door she just came through, rubs his neck. “Mama said we can’t go in, but we wanna listen to the pretty music. Are we in trouble?”

She shakes her head. “No, you’re not in trouble. It _is_ very beautiful music.”

The older boy extends a hand. “I’m Max. Our parents are all working tonight, in the kitchen and stuff, so we’re waiting for them to go home. But we snuck outside to hear the music.”

Yang shakes his hand, gravely. “That was a smart move. I did the same thing.”

Max grins, looking down at their joined hands. “Do you know how to dance the atlesian waltz?” Yang nods, amused by his excitement, now that he’s no longer scared of her. “Would you, huh, teach me?” he asks, a little shy.

She laughs. “Sure thing.” She stands up, pulling him towards her. The other kids scatter in a half-circle, wide-eyed and fascinated. “Okay, so first you need to face me and put your other hand on my shoulder.”

It’s a little awkward - Yang is so much taller than him - but they manage a semi-correct position. Yang taps his feet with her own to widen his stance, then places her hand on his waist. “Okay, now listen to the rhythm of the music - one two three, one two three. We’re gonna follow the rhythm. Look at my feet.”

She leads him through the steps, and they start dancing clumsily. He’s clinging hard at her dress, a little unsure, and the line of his shoulders is too stiff - he almost trips a few times. Yang stays gentle, guiding him back to the rhythm again and again every time he falters. It reminds her, weirdly, of teaching Ruby how to swim - the patient repetition.

Max is not a bad dancer, and when he’s mastered the steps, Yang tries something a little more challenging. The other kids clap and cheer as Yang twists and turns the two of them around, her golden dress flowing in the cold air. She’s so focused on the dance - and on not stepping on poor Max’s feet - that she doesn’t notice when the other kids stop cheering, until there’s a hand on Max’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Blake says, to Max, with a kind smile. “Would you let me have a dance with her?”.

The boy glances at Yang, steps back, and suddenly his little hand on Yang’s shoulder is replaced by Blake’s, suddenly Blake is standing in front of her, face to face, her hair glowing under the moonlight, eyes brighter than any star above.

Yang feels warm all over. She rests a hand on Blake’s waist, almost shyly, and grabs her other hand. Blake’s skin is soft under her fingers, and familiar. They lock eyes, and start moving with the music, twirling on the icy paved alleyway, feet perfectly in synch. The children are standing on the side, watching them with awe and delight - the little girl’s mouth opens comically wide. Yang smiles, soft.

“What are you doing out here?” she asks Blake, low as a whisper, before spinning her around and back in her arms.

“I was looking for you,” Blake says, simply. She smiles too. The music slows, and she presses herself against Yang, until their bodies melt into one, cheek to cheek, heart to heart. “I couldn’t handle the party anymore, I just wanted to be with you,” she murmurs into Yang’s ear.

Yang trails her hand until it rests on the curve of Blake’s lower back, metal arm circling around her waist. “Me too.”

“Are you okay?” The words are soft, but sincere, and there’s genuine concern in Blake’s eyes. Maybe she’s wondering what drove Yang outside the ballroom. Yang’s chest fills with affection and gratitude.

She brings her other hand up to cup the back of Blake’s neck, and now the dance looks more like a swaying hug. “I’m great. Except…”

“Yes?” Blake breathes out. Her own arms are tight around Yang, fingers digging a little into the bare skin of her shoulder blades.

“Except I really want to kiss you right now,” Yang murmurs. She feels Blake shivering under her hands, feels the way her breath stutters out of her lungs, and she’s not nervous, not at all. It feels right, and the moment is perfect - the two of them in an iced garden under the moonlight, having just escaped the rigidity of atlesian etiquette.

Blake leans away a little, so she can look up and into Yang’s eyes. Yang reads wonder on her face, but also something else, something _unwavering_ , the tranquil strength of absolute certainty. So she lets Blake tugs her head a little lower, until their noses are touching, until Blake’s lips meet hers.

It’s the gentlest kiss, the brush of butterflies wings against one another, yet it’s powerful enough to shake mountains inside Yang’s heart. Her cheeks burn, every inch of her skin is tingling, down to her fingertips. Blake kisses her again, a little rougher this time, capturing her lower lip between her teeth for the briefest instant. Yang feels on the verge of falling. Maybe she already did.

But she hears a small gasp, from behind her, then a giggle, and a couple shushing sounds.

Right. “We have an audience,” Yang murmurs against Blake’s mouth.

Blake chuckles and lets go of her, taking a step back. “Maybe we should go back to this later, in private.” Her expression shifts to something hesitant, and she blushes, pretty pink. “I mean. If you want to?”

“Yeah,” Yang says, catching Blake’s hand in her own, squeezing once. “I’d like that.”

The little girl comes up to Blake, and tugs at the side of her dress. “Excuse me,” she says, very solemn and obviously imitating Blake from a few minutes ago. “Can I have the next dance?”

Blake smiles, before schooling her expression into seriousness. “It would be my honor.”

She hoists the child on her hip, and starts spinning, and Yang watches her, her heart beating steadily in her chest, sure, like she’s never been before, of what she feels and what she wants.

Blake and Yang spend the rest of the evening laughing and dancing with children and looking at each other, thinking of their first kiss under the stars, and of many more to come, and when it’s time to leave, Yang sighs, happily.

See, now _that’s_ the kind of parties she loves.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos to anyone who guesses which scene from which movie inspired me for this :D


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